Embracing Envy
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: Jealousy is a two-way street. Of course, one like Sherlock Holmes would never admit it. As far as he's concerned, 'Holmeses DON'T get jealous' but... well, we'll see about that. And what better thing to be jealous of than John?
1. Hugging Holmes

**A/N: Because I normally focus on either case or dark/angsty sort of fics, I've decided it might be fun to try my hand at something a bit… lighter. :) So, don't worry, I'm not aiming to make you cry or anything this time. I may turn this into a series of one-shots or otherwise but at the moment this stands alone. Please enjoy. This can be taken as friendship or pre-slash.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"Good morning!" Brilliant blue eyes turned to examine the man slowly descending down the stairs, but he didn't say a word back. John sighed and kept going anyway, deridingly ignoring Sherlock's apparent rudeness. He was far too tired to even care this morning. A cup of tea and he'd be quite alright, but, until then… well, a bomb could explode in the flat and he wouldn't be bothered a bit.

As he reached for the cabinet above the only experiment-free counter, however, things became clear: the tea was gone! His eyes widened. Well, this definitely woke him up. The mystery of the stolen tea. Of course, it was quite obvious who the most likely suspect was. With another sigh, he turned to Sherlock, tapped his flatmate on the shoulder, and tiredly demanded, "Tea?"

"No thank you, I've already had some," Sherlock didn't look up from what he was doing, but John did catch the tiny smirk breaking on his face.

"I meant _where's_ the tea?"

Sherlock only grunted in reply. Sluggishly, John rolled his eyes and simply fell into his favourite sitting room chair, eyes shutting. He sat there for what seemed like hours, resting in the sort of in-between place barely touching sleep, barely touching consciousness. He was startled out of this by a rather loud tap on the door. His eyes flew open and he was greeted by the sight of Mrs. Hudson. In all honesty, John normally would've dismissed her right away and closed his eyes again, but there was something different this time.

She was carrying _breakfast._ And tea. Oh God, he could just hug her. But, before he could do exactly that, she put down the food and Sherlock grabbed her in an awkward embrace. There was a motherly smile on her face when he let go, and John felt a spike of inexplicable jealousy. He brushed it away quickly, not allowing much thought to it. After all, it wasn't like Sherlock hugged many people. Mrs. Hudson obviously had this privilege and… well, he didn't.

"Mmm, Mrs. Hudson, you are amazing," John announced, taking his place at one of the poorly balanced kitchen chairs. Even as he enjoyed the food and idly chatted with his flatmate and landlady, the thoughts of Sherlock's hugging Mrs. Hudson lingered at the edge of his mind. Why did he care so much, anyway?

* * *

Two days later, John had finally brushed off the whole breakfast incident as his being exhausted when Lestrade chanced a visit to the flat. It was just after noon and both John and Sherlock were fully awake this time, though exchanging even fewer words than they had before breakfast two days ago. They moved around the flat doing their separate things - Sherlock experimenting with the last of the milk (again) and John ranting on his blog about Sherlock's use of the milk (again). On a good note, however, they'd found the tea on the floor under the table.

It hadn't been used, of course. John wouldn't touch anything without being sure it hadn't been in contact with one of Sherlock's experiments, and the floor was one of the many likely places that such thing would have happened.

And so they were going about their separate business when Lestrade came bounding up the stairs, looking as though he'd been running quite a bit. Sherlock was on his feet in a flash, eyes glinting with an odd excitement. If he wasn't used to it by now, John might've called his flatmate insane.

"What is it? What do you have for me?" Sherlock hadn't even bothered to keep the hint of excitement out of his normally detached voice.

"You know the double murder in the paper the other day?" At Sherlock's nod, Lestrade continued. "There's been a third. The murderer left a clue, but it doesn't make sense."

"Where?"

"Brixton. Again."

"Of course I'll be there." Sherlock grinned widely and, in what seemed to be a moment of complete eccentrics, he pulled the Detective Inspector into a brief hug. The man looked confused, startled even, and had only just moved to awkwardly hug Sherlock back when the consulting detective let go. Not even waiting for the other two men, he was out the door in a flash.

And John felt that jealousy again.

* * *

"So… what _was_ that about?"

Lestrade looked at him like he might have all the answers in the world. Unsure, John shrugged. He considered his words very carefully before opening his mouth to speak. "I think he was just grateful. You know him. He gets bored, and then you bring him a case… it's like a little kid at Christmas."

Good. Lestrade doesn't look suspicious at all. Since the odd embrace exchanged between Detective Inspector and consulting detective, he'd been trying to sort out the feelings of jealousy. Honestly, hugging Mrs. Hudson had made sense, but Lestrade? It had to have been a moment of complete insanity, and John couldn't help but feel jealous as he watched his mysterious flatmate wrap those pale, elegant (and frankly too long) arms around the Detective Inspector.

"He's insane, he's gotta be," Lestrade muttered finally. Sherlock appeared in the doorway just in time to hear, "What was with Sherlock hugging me, anyway?"

Anderson sulkily followed Sherlock into the room. He looked a bit confused at the words "Sherlock" and "hug" in the same sentence. Sherlock, on the other hand, smirked widely and asked, "You mind? I suppose I'll have to find someone else to hug, then."

And, just to see the man recoil in shock, he actually spun around and seized Anderson. _Anderson._ John felt the jealousy assault him again, this time more powerful than anything. Sherlock absolutely hated, despised, detested, loathed - and any other synonym - the man, and he'd just _embraced_ him. And then there was John, who'd never gotten anything close to that in the months they'd been living together.

Fortunately, of course, Anderson pulled from Sherlock's grasp immediately, profanities streaming from his mouth. Sherlock looked ever so pleased with himself, that arrogant smirk of his widening a tiny bit at Lestrade's shock and Anderson's reaction. He cast a look over in John's direction, the smirk dropping in happiness at the odd look on John's face, but he chose to ignore it instead.

And John was still feeling that selfsame jealousy.

* * *

A week after the first incident and five days after the other, John was quietly minding his business in the flat. He was exhausted, to say the least, after a rather busy day of working followed by a few hours of chasing criminals through London. But he'd promised Harry that he'd update his blog with their newest adventure ASAP. She seemed to have taken a liking to his flatmate - the very thought of them ever pursuing a relationship disgusted him, even though he was well aware that Sherlock disliked his sister. He had been typing for quite a while, sitting at the annoyingly uncomfortable kitchen table, when the exhaustion really began to get to him. He simply closed the lid of his laptop and lay his head on the table. In seconds, he was asleep.

Sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep meant he could forget about the things that had been bothering him lately. Specifically, the issues of jealousy and Sherlock's apparent newfound obsession with hugging people.

Unfortunately, his sleep didn't last long. He was woken almost fifteen minutes later as his body was sort of gently lain down on the couch. Groggily, he opened his eyes to find Sherlock leaning over him, a tired halfsmile on his friend's face. John stared between Sherlock and the couch before it clicked. Had he really just been carried here?

"You looked tired," Sherlock said simply, as if it would explain everything.

"You're tired as well, go to sleep," John yawned rather loudly, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I have things to do-"

"Just sleep for once. Even in the chair is good."

"But-" Sherlock actually paused for a second, his argument defeated when he suddenly yawned. "Ugh. Fine."

John grinned at him sleepily, snuggling his head into the couch. He lay still for a few moments before it became clear that Sherlock hadn't moved at all. Frowning, he turned over again and stared up at his flatmate. A heartbeat passed between them, dreadfully slow, before Sherlock leaned down. There was no awkwardness, no arrogance in the way that he pulled John into a tight embrace, murmuring "good night". Unlike Mrs. Hudson - a moment of exhaustion mixed with hunger - and unlike Lestrade - excitement propelled him then - and very much unlike Anderson - he'd just hugged him to get a reaction - Sherlock seemed to actually put some thought and feeling into this. When he drew away, a smile lingered on his face.

As it turns out, Sherlock did, in fact, sleep in the chair, as directed. And John probably had the best sleep of his life on the couch.

After all, he hadn't any reason to be jealous any more.


	2. Missed Hugs and Perfect Tea

**A/N: Jealous John has shown his face, obviously, but what makes Sherlock jealous? I've been sitting here trying to figure that out for a while. I mean, Watson got a Sherlock hug, so Sherlock got a Watson hug at the same time. No jealousy left over that. And then… well, let's just say I had a brilliant idea… and then that brilliant idea decided to turn into something completely different. ;D I don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock was getting frustrated.

For a week straight, he'd watched John prepare what he'd termed "perfect tea" for every guest that chanced upon their flat. In fact, Sherlock was beginning to suspect the visitors were only there for the tea. But none of this tea would ever come to Sherlock himself. Whenever John made tea for just the two of them, the doctor would be tired and not entirely focussed, so the tea would be weak and far from perfect.

He was never offered any of this perfect tea, presumably because the consulting detective went out of his way to make himself scarce when 'idiots' visited the flat. Sherlock was far more content to sit in his own bedroom and noisily play violin in hopes of scaring off guests. Or perhaps he'd steal John's laptop on the way by and use it upstairs, updating John's blog for him. Of course, Sherlock's blog posts obviously differed a great deal from John's, and, though neither bothered to sign their names, it was always clear who'd written what. Especially since Sherlock had a habit of saying 'the idiots came back again today' whereas John might more lightly term it as 'more guests today'. This was frustrating, too - Sherlock could never perfectly copy John's writing style. There was too much _Sherlock_ in the posts he wrote and too little _John._

By Sunday, he'd truly had enough. He stumbled down the stairs at twelve noon, surprised that he'd slept so long (actually, not surprising at all, considering he'd been awake until nine o'clock that morning). He hadn't been expecting anyone more than John and was quite surprised to see a woman sitting at the kitchen table. He'd never met her before, but he could easily identify her and the surge of hate he felt for her. Of course. This was Harry.

"Sherlock, good morning," John called, rather cheerily. Sherlock smiled at him softly. Normally he'd give his friend a small hug at this point. Somehow they'd gotten into an odd routine of good mornings and short embraces (he had a slight feeling that this wasn't normal for two male flatmates, but he wasn't complaining) but today must've been special or something, because there was none of that. John obviously didn't want his sister getting any ideas, so he didn't approach Sherlock. The consulting detective felt a flash of resentment and annoyance.

"Sorry, I'd share the tea, but Harry got the last cup," John informed him. Sherlock frowned at this, an unknown emotion hitting him. He might've placed it as 'envy' if he didn't know that envy _wasn't_ one of his emotions. Envy for what, anyway? The tea? Or… or John's attention? The feeling increased as John turned back to his sister and began to chat away, as if Sherlock wasn't there at all.

Frowning, the consulting detective strutted back to his room. Once there, he fell back onto his mattress and stared at his ceiling in disgust.

That unnamed emotion lingered at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

* * *

"Sarah? Oh, God, Sarah, are you alright?"

Tears streamed down the woman's face as she stood in the door of 221B. John was obviously consoling her as best as he could, despite the very obvious fact that he was no longer dating her. They'd remained 'friends', though, and he was always a goodnatured man. Sherlock tried to remember this while watching the scene.

Didn't he have a right to be resentful? Harry hadn't left until about three and by the time Sherlock re-entered the sitting room, it was nearly five. Two minutes ago he'd finally gotten a chance to sit with John and just talk. All the attention had been on him, just the way he'd wanted it. And then Sarah had to burst in the door, crying, and everything had been ruined.

Sarah mumbled something incoherent and John guided her carefully to the couch. A pointed look at Sherlock forced the consulting detective to move to the armchair instead, still examining the scene. Dear God, couldn't the woman just _shut up_? Nobody wanted to hear her crying, nobody cared. Except John. Damn his good-naturedness. Damn his friendliness. All Sherlock had wanted was to talk to him for a while and she'd gone and ruined it.

He watched, anger flashing in his eyes, as the good doctor and the annoying woman fell back onto the couch. He tried to ignore how close they were sitting, legs crushed together and hands on arms. It felt completely wrong to see John sitting like this with someone else. Amongst other things, Sherlock and John did have their own odd way about things, and sitting together was definitely in that list. More than once they'd watch crap telly late at night, sitting far too close to one another, Sherlock's leg thrown over John's knee and arms brushing. After all, Sherlock _did_ like to take up as much space as he could. Occasionally they'd fallen asleep like that, but all awkwardness seemed to clear in an hour.

After about five minutes of this, Sherlock had had enough. He got up, eyes shooting daggers in John's direction (the good doctor looked up at him, confused for a moment) and stomped off in the direction of his room. Despite the anger and still unnamed emotion running through his veins, he shut the door quietly.

And once again he fell back onto the bed, staring blindly at the ceiling.

And once again that selfsame emotion tingled at the back of his mind.

* * *

"Bye, Sarah. I'm sorry about that, I do hope she gets better. Good night, be safe."

The words were strangely loud in the very quiet flat. Sherlock frowned at the ceiling at these words, relief washing over him. This meant Sarah was leaving. Good. He hadn't expected her to stay this long. Not until two in the morning. But apparently she'd had other plans and because of that… well, there went _his_ plans. Straight out the window. That meant the day was basically a disaster. No cases. No "Watson Hug" as he'd so affectionally termed it (John, in turn, tend to refer to their morning routine as getting a "Holmes Hug", disregarding the fact that this could also involve Mycroft. Sherlock shuddered. He'd hate to see Mycroft hugging John.). And, after all that, Sarah had come along and ruined his only two seconds with John.

Great. Wonderful. Brilliant.

…terrible.

Sherlock sat in the silence for another ten minutes before it was definitely becoming unbearable. He considered grabbing John's laptop from his bedside but even as it crossed his mind he disregarded the idea. Staring blankly at the ceiling was much more riveting at the moment. He was still trying to put a name to the emotion he'd felt earlier. The word '_envy_' kept entering his mind, but he pushed it away. No Holmes would sink so low as to be jealous, and definitely not _Sherlock_ Holmes.

After those ten minutes, however, he was startled to hear his door open slowly. He kept staring at the ceiling, though. It was obvious who was coming into the room, though why was the mystery. He wouldn't gain anything by looking at John. In fact, until he figured out that emotion, he wanted to avoid looking at John as much as possible.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" John called, stepping delicately around the assorted items strewn across the floor. He reached the bed in a few seconds, gently reaching to tap Sherlock's shoulder. Involuntarily, Sherlock flinched under the touch. "Ah, so you _are_ awake."

"Mmmhhmm," Sherlock mumbled, still refusing to look at his friend. John frowned at this.

"What's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing at all. What _are_ you talking about?"

"This morning and all of today. This morning you didn't look happy at all. Was it because we were out of tea?"

"You are daft, aren't you?" Sherlock's reply was barely audible, but it was heard.

"Well I'm not a mind reader like you. And then you got sulky and sat in your room all day. You actually looked happy until Sarah showed up and then you got angry. So, what's up, Sherlock? What did the world do today?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first. Rolling his eyes, John fell backwards onto the bed beside his friend. Surprised, the consulting detective forgot his vow to not look at his companion and fixed his ice blue eyes on him. John frowned again, "Seriously, what's up?"

"Nothing, I'm quite alright."

"No, you're not. What happened this- oh!" John looked as though he might've been the smartest person in the world or something. A small smile stole across his features. Sherlock resisted the urge to smile as well. After all, this was what he wanted, wasn't it? John's undivided attention. And now he had it.

"You were upset because you didn't get a Watson Hug?" John grinned at this thought, a chuckle rising to his lips before he could stop it. He rolled over on the bed, laughing into the blanket, and Sherlock soon joined him. The idiocy of the situation was insane.

It took a full three minutes for either to stop laughing, and by then they were both teary-eyed. When they stopped, John reached for Sherlock and pulled him into a lasting embrace.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his friend, grinning, when he remembered. His smile slipped and he frowned a bit. "John, why do you never offer me any of your 'perfect' tea?"

"I- ah, what?"

"You always say you make 'perfect' tea for our guests, but never for me."

"Is _that_ what's bothering you? Hugs and tea?"

Sherlock frowned at this. "No, I'm not that childish."

"You don't know yourself."

"Point taken, I suppose."

"So what you're telling me is that you got jealous over the 'perfect' tea I gave Harry and the fact that I was concentrated on other people today?"

"Holmeses _don't_ get jealous."

But now, at the back of his mind, he knew they did.

That was alright, though, because he'd gotten what he wanted in the end. A hug, John's undivided attention, and (hopefully) 'perfect' tea in the morning.

What a brilliant day this was turning out to be.

**A/N: :) Jealous Sherlock is jealous. I'm considering continuing this, though I do have other stories to work on. It might be fun to add one-shots every once and a while. Things that make our favourite boys jealous of one another/other people.**

**Apologies if the "Holmeses" thing is wrong. How the heck do you pluralize Holmes?**


End file.
